“I’m Agent Dire, Paranormal Defense Department. You’re at the wrong address. You were meant to be a snack for the ogre next door.”

He explained the reason for his stakeout. His cover was blown, but he had a plan. Would I help?

I gazed into his sexy eyes. “Hell yes!”

Flash Fiction: Peasant take-out II: ‘The Plan’

“Sheesh,” I said twenty minutes later, after a fast fuck on the floor. How else can you thank the guy who just saved your life? “Not only had I been delivering a coded message, I was lunch to go as well!”

Agent Dire kissed my swollen clit. “You are very tasty, you know.”

I playfully slapped his shoulder. “Who in their right mind would send a coded message by stripper gram?”

“Bad guys,” he said into my pussy lips. “With a sick sense of humor.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Fill me in.”

He did, and later, after another furious fuck, he told me the plan.

“No way,” I protested. “That’s a real ogre next door.”

“As far as he knows he’s still safe. He won’t suspect you.”

“And you want me to give him a message from you?”

“Yep.”

“What if he gets hungry?”

“That’s the plan.”

Flash Fiction: Peasant take-out III: ‘The Ogre’

Agent Dire sent me off with a “good luck” kiss. I wanted more, like a “good luck” fuck, but I consoled myself with the fact that he’s a great kisser and his promise of a “job well done” fuck in an hour’s time.

I pushed the doorbell and waited; my heart in my mouth and a peculiar gnawing sensation in my belly. I guess that was fear and not the aftereffect of what Agent Dire had been doing with his agile fingers, substantial cock and delightfully inventive tongue.

The door swung open.

Oh. My. Goodness.

On an ‘Impossibly sexy’ scale of one to ten this guy was a fifteen!

Ogres were supposed to be hideously ugly, which this guy wasn’t. Could Agent Dire be mistaken?

Lovely eyes the color of a Tahitian lagoon caressed me for a long cool moment.

“Yes, ma petite chérie?”

OMG, and he was French!

Flash Fiction: Peasant take-out IV: ‘The message… what message?’

I stood there wide eyed, my mouth open like a fly catcher, and my nipples barely restrained by the décolletage of my saucy costume.

“Is there something you wish, ma petite?” His accent strummed my erogenous zones like a long time lover.

“Ummmmmm,” was the best I could manage.

His turquoise eyes drew me in, heart and soul. Were ogres magical? Because I was certain he’d put me under a spell.

“Are you unwell, ma cherie?”

“Ummmmmmm.”

Yep. He had me under a spell alright. What kind of ogre was he? Not one from any nursery rhyme I recall.

Agent Dire had him all wrong.

This Adonis couldn’t be a heartless monster preying on humans, gobbling us up and using our bones as toothpicks.

No. This was no ogre.

“Entrez s'il-vous-plaît,” he whispered seductively.

Agent Dire had been adamant. “Sing the message and get the hell out!”

I went in.

Flash Fiction: Peasant take-out V: ‘The Main Course.’

“You’re very beautiful,” the so called Ogre said.

“Thank you. I…”

“It’s a mistake for you to be here.”

“Don’t tell me this is the wrong address too!”

“Too?”

His oh so kissable lips creased into a smile.

“I mean…” I pointed to the long toe nailed foot protruding from behind the sofa. “What’s that?”

“Someone you definitely did not want to meet.” He flicked the lace edging my décolletage. “Especially dressed like that.”

I looked behind the sofa. There was a dead ogre on the floor.

“The message, s'il-vous-plaît.”

“I think it was meant for him.”

“Ah, then you have arrived too late.” He caressed my cheek. “I would very much like to make love to you, ma cherie, but alas…”

“Alas?”

“Not on a full stomach.”

It was then that I noticed that part of the ogre’s left thigh was missing.

It had been eaten.

Flash Fiction: Peasant take-out VI: ‘Dire’s Strait’ by Mikala Ash

Agent Dire’s plan suddenly made sense.

He hadn’t meant the Ogre being hungry… he’d meant … “I was mistaken. The message is for you after all.”

“Please, ma cherie.”

I didn’t bother with the music, it didn’t fit the words anyway, and I didn’t sing it - my mouth was too dry.

“A debt of honor repaid,” I began, hardly above a whisper, “Need not end a liaison … Or cause a heart to fade.”

A smile creased his perfect lips while those beguiling eyes caressed my soul. With his fingers under my chin he lifted my face and kissed me.

Warm lips carried me into a whirlpool of desire. Eventually, he set me adrift.

“I can taste him,” he whispered, somewhat poignantly.

“What’s your name?”

“Max.” A smile accompanied a slight bow of the head. “Maxime Detroit at your service.”